Inspiration. However, flicking through her thick and dense sketchbook in fascination, I begin to notice something. Something quite distinct, in fact. There are two styles here.

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English Original Creative Writing

Arta Ajeti 10B.2

Just another day, sitting on a bench with a notebook on my lap and I'm scribbling out random dribbles and drabbles of thought. They're melting together, but not making sense, and the sketches of nothing in the corners bordering it are starting to worry me. The pages get ripped out and thrown into the already-overflowing rubbish bin in a slapdash fashion.  

If only I could stop trying so hard to think of something, then maybe I’d have a slight chance of coming up with anything productive today. Birds... a cloudy September sky... a couple of bored-looking kids kicking a football around aimlessly… Whoever ingeniously alleged the great outdoors was the best place for inspiration, beyond doubt needs to rethink.

I start to doodle in the blankness of my empty page to make it seem slightly less demoralizing. A little sketchy heart here, a couple of quick pentagrams there - I don’t know why I didn’t take A-Level art instead. Of course, I then draw the ever-dominating stick man who I happen to name Jimmy. This time he’s feeling a bit frustrated since he cannot seem to think of anything to write. I start to enhance the corner with hearts, worried about the likeliness of snapping my pen in two in all my enthusiasm of drawing Jimmy.

I don't notice the first time she says ‘hey’, but the second time catches my attention. I almost thank her for it, but she would never have understood why.

“What are you drawing?” she says in a mystifying yet placid voice. I tell her I'm not, I'm writing. She laughs and raises her perfectly neat eyebrows, “What are you writing then?” I look down at the doodles. Turning back to the pages that I had written before giving up hope and scanning my previous attempts (which hadn’t already been disposed of), I realize that it's not my style of writing. It's not even my handwriting.

But my hand wrote it.

“I'm not sure, I was just writing out thoughts I guess… they rarely come out clearly.” She smiles again, tucking her sleek black hair behind her ears which had been partly obscuring her face before asking if she can join me. I say yes, and scoot over on the slightly decomposed bench.

She sits next to me and pulls a sketchbook out of her scruffy-looking messenger bag covered in badges of all sizes and colours. I know it might seem impolite, but I cannot help but gaze at her sheer flawlessness; pale skin that looks as smooth as polished marble, long, lush eyelashes which surround her ocean blue eyes so deep I was swimming in them, and utterly straight black hair like midnight which I couldn’t imagine could get any blacker.

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Flipping through pages of drawings she sighs and hums before coming to a clean blank one. She sets her sharp pencil to the paper, her hand seeming to glide across the page with nothing to hinder its velocity, nothing to change what it is about to produce.  

“So how long have you been writing?” I snap back and notice I’d been staring when she asks.

“Oh, a couple of hours,” I shrug.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” she replies with a knowing look. I tucked my own un-straightened blonde curls behind my ears now and ...

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